


Fourteen Days

by mswyrr



Series: Recovery [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hijacked Peeta, Holding Hands, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, hot hot handholding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswyrr/pseuds/mswyrr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’d come to think of sanity as a few precious coins he had to spend wisely."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteen Days

 

* * *

 

The first few days after she came were a blur. The new treatment plan had humane principles going for it, but they still didn’t know what they were doing. The doctors hadn’t been using the controller for fun, pain _was_ the most direct way they’d found to snap him out of an episode. Without it, he lost whole days to rounds of hijacked delusions and sedation.

His mind was all torn wires, hissing and sparking. Flickering brighter. Shorting out. It just hurt and hurt and _hurt_. Few things could distract him from it long enough to matter except physical pain. With the controller gone, he used the straps to ground himself. Twisted them around and tried to hold on. His wrists were raw by the time they finished recalibrating his medications.

Once he could be present long enough to express a preference, Dr. Lewis asked him if there was anything he wanted.

“If anyone still wants to see me…” There was a needy yearning in his chest for human contact. People who knew him, not the neutral faces of the staff. He felt like a fish flopping around on dry land gasping for water. But he wouldn’t blame them if they’d given up on him at this point. How many times could someone be expected to hold a conversation with a screaming maniac?

“Of course they do,” Dr. Lewis said. “People have been asking after you.”

“Then I want to talk to them,” he said. “That’s what I want.”

Dr. Lewis was nothing if not amenable. A new schedule was set up immediately. Mornings and evenings were for “work” – some combination of watching videos while drugged to the gills and talk therapy. But in the afternoons he got to see people. 

 

 **[** **Week 1]**

 

Haymitch came to see him on Monday.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. He gave Peeta’s bare foot a casual pat and stood there at the end of the bed, clearly wishing he was having a drink. Someplace else. He wasn’t good with sick people. Seemed to think that Peeta was a bit dim now that he’d gone mad. He had some humiliating memories of screaming his head off at the man that he wished he could get rid of, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have a reason.

But it nettled. And annoyance was much safer than rage, so he didn’t try to push the feeling away. He used to spend hours figuring out the right words to say to keep this man functional. Swallowing his pride. Playing peacemaker between him and _her_ because neither of _them_ could ever swallow _their_ pride. Oh, no. Never that! And then Haymitch had gone and lied to them, gotten them into this mess. If he’d just shared his stupid plan… it wasn’t like Peeta couldn’t keep a secret.

“How much trouble is she in?” Peeta asked crisply and took satisfaction in watching the condescending look evaporate. He was sick, not _stupid_.

“After that stunt she pulled? Not too bad,” Haymitch said, casting his eyes over at the one-way mirror and then back. “She’s got some political capital left,” he raked his eyes over Peeta, “if she doesn’t spend it all in one place. Still,” he shrugged, “she’s finding ways to make herself useful. That’s the thing about 13, everybody finds a way to make themselves useful.”

Peeta felt a shiver go up his spine. The implied _or else_ hung in the air. He knew they were spending a small fortune in pharmaceuticals on him. But the full dimensions of the situation… he’d convinced Haymitch he was well enough to survive getting a scare put into him, he guessed. It was what he wanted, but it rankled. Because who knew why?

“That’s not really my fault, now is it?” he snapped, much angrier than he should be.

Haymitch cocked his head. “Kid, you ever known a day in your life when that mattered?”

Peeta frowned. “Stop calling me kid.”

“Okay, _son_ ,” Haymitch said, a glint in his eye.

“Why do you even come by?” he asked, exasperated.

“Guilt, mostly.”

“Just take care of her,” Peeta said. He couldn’t do it himself. He was part of the problem and he hated having to admit that.

“You know, I hadn’t thought of that!” Haymitch drawled. He nodded, “But now you mention it – I’ll get right on that.”

“Oh, fuck off, Haymitch.”

Haymitch patted his foot again, laughed. “I kind of like you better rude, you know that, son?”

“That’s because you think nice is weak,” Peeta said, unable to hide his bitterness. Haymitch had always thought that. Peeta had even used it to his advantage, to get more help for _her_. As far as he could recall, it always worked. That hurt.

A sad look came over Haymitch’s face. He smoothed a hand over his beard. “Nah. It’s been a while since I’d make a stupid mistake like that. Well,” he headed for the door, “see you later, kid.”

 

-

Everything hurt more the saner he got. He remembered just enough to miss what he had lost.

-

 

On Tuesday, Delly told him about the boy from 13 she was sweet on. He was tall and quiet and he’d found her little brother when the boy got lost. She talked to Peeta like his friends used to back home. At school, Peeta was always the one people came to for sympathy, advice, a shoulder to cry on. He hadn’t felt so clean in a long, long time as he did being talked to like he was still that boy.

She was doing it on purpose. But she played the role so well only another inveterate people pleaser would be able to tell. Most people probably thought she was shallow. Most people were assholes.

“But now I’m all confused about what to do,” she said, finishing her story with a sigh. “He rescued little Davy and I haven’t even spoken to him since!” She pressed her hand to her cheek, the very picture of adolescent suffering.

Peeta smiled. “You said you have a class with him?”

She nodded.

“You could ask to study with him,” he suggested. He hadn’t felt this light and silly since… he tried to skip back to the last time and had to stop. There was a vast wreckage of holes and shiny, gleaming cruel memories and twisted things between him and that kind of innocence.

“Do you really think that would work?” She twirled the end of her blond braid. “I’ve never been very pretty…” He could tell that part of her fears was real. She’d always been cheerful about being passed over by boys growing up, but it had to hurt.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re pretty, even in these drab clothes. And,” he shrugged, “he’s been locked underground with most of the other girls here his whole life. They’re probably all like sisters to him. You’re _interesting._ Different.”

A smile spread across her face, bright and true like sunlight. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, I do.” He thought back. “Do you have any of your ribbons?” She used to try to brighten herself up sometimes with ribbons in her hair. But she always acted so beaten down and ashamed about her looks the boys didn’t notice.

“You remember that,” she said and gave his arm a warm squeeze. “I have a green one in my dresser,” she said.

“Braid it through your hair,” he said. “And go talk to him.”

She stood up and kissed his cheek. “I’ll do that.” As she headed for the door she tossed back, “I’ll let you know how it goes next week!”

He felt actual joy and anticipation at the thought. She’d probably planned on talking to the boy anyway, but she’d decided to share the sweet little love story with him. Something nice to think about. Something kind.

He looked around the bare white room and felt the illusion of innocence fade. Felt tears creeping up in his eyes and blinked them back. He’d never thought it was right to be ashamed of your emotions, but crying _all the time_ was too much even for him.

She’d come back next week. It would be all right.

And if that boy wasn’t nice to her Peeta was going to get out of here and have a word with him.

 

-

All the videos and talk therapy was like digging his fingers into an open wound. It was supposed to help, but that was hard to remember given how much it hurt.

Sometimes he flipped out. Or blanked out. Or had to run to the bathroom to throw up. After he’d done that several times they started giving him a strong anti-nausea medication before his meals. It made it so he physically _couldn’t_ throw up, even if he wanted to.

They didn’t hold with wasting food, these District 13 folk.

It reminded him of his mother cuffing him on the back of the head if he didn’t finish supper. It was a warm memory, the open handed blow not intended to hurt really. Not like the rolling pin  or her closed fist. And then he was remembering how she and Da and Rye and Bax had all burned to death and it was _his_ fault…

Screaming fit. Sedative. Add eggs and whisk. Add sugar and whisk again.

Around and around.

-

 

Johanna spent five minutes with him on Wednesday. It meant as much as all the others combined. She was like a sibling to him now, reborn together in blood and screaming. It was either love her or hate her for having seen him so weak and he was beginning to know that, when he had a choice about it, he preferred love. Nobody so strong should be made to whimper like that. So, he loved Johanna. And didn’t blame her for waiting so long to come.

He knew what this place would look like to her.

She sucked in a breath when she saw him in the white room, the straps on the bed, her nostrils flaring. Said “hey, lover boy” to him and paced around the room like a captive animal, not looking at him.

“So, they,” she said, her voice sharp, “put you in a place to _fix_ you that looks just like the place the Capitol cracked you up!” She met eyes with the one-way mirror like she was staring down an enemy. “And there’s no fucking color in here.” She pointed a finger at him. “He’s a _painter_. He knows the names of colors I didn’t even know existed.” He remembered reciting them when things were bad, trying to hold himself together. She must have heard that. Her voice was bordering on a scream now. “Are you all _fucking stupid_?” she asked the room, her arms wide.

“I’m okay,” he said.

She looked over at him. “I can’t do this,” she said. With her shaved head and sunken eyes, he thought she looked the way he felt.

“That’s okay,” he said.

She marched over to him and gave him a bone-crushing hug, like he wasn’t dangerous at all. Then she walked out.

That evening a set of finger-paints arrived with a note.

_Splatter their precious white walls with it or whatever. - Johanna_

He asked for paper instead. The paint was cool and comforting against his fingertips. He mixed colors and made a dark green forest in her honor.

 

-

At least he was unbound most of the time now. Things like feeling sick or going to the bathroom or washing up were less horrible with a shred of privacy.

He was truly grateful for that.

-

 

Prim came on Thursday. She brought a deck of cards and kicked his ass at Go Fish. She’d wanted to be all grown up and play something else, but he wanted to be silly. So, Go Fish it was.

And she totally kicked his ass.

“You’re a card sharp,” he muttered as he gave her all his eights. “A regular hustler.” He pouted his bottom lip out. “You’re going to put me _in the poor house_ ,” he whined. His goal was to make her laugh as much as he could in the hour. He was doing pretty good for himself.

Prim giggled, increasing the tally, as she put down her three eights. “Um,” she fanned her remaining cards out carefully, “give me all your... aces,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Peeta rolled his eyes and handed over his ace. “Cheating is _immoral_ , you know.”

“I’m not a cheater,” Prim said, raising her chin. “I’m just _very good_.” She reminded him of her hard-nosed sister and, for once, nothing bad came of thinking a thought like that.

He laughed and rallied for a third round victory just before she left.

 

-

Friday was bad. _She_ was supposed to come visit in the afternoon. The thought already had him about to jump out of his skin. And then they decided to fuck his head up with an intense round of videos and therapy. It felt like they were sabotaging him. It made him feel like rage was pooling in his stomach and spreading out up his chest, poisoning him.

He and Dr. Lewis “made real progress” during therapy. He remembered Lavinia’s broken body jolting with electricity. The smell of burning hair. The sound of a death rattle in her ruined mouth. He remembered the way Darius’ hands and face had looked like raw meat by the end. And he knew that all of this was real.

Nothing shiny about it.

He spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom wishing he could throw up.

After all that glorious “progress” the thought of seeing _her_ made him want to crawl under the bed and hide. He politely asked them to tell her he was sorry, really sorry but could she please come back next week?

He went back to the bathroom to cry in private. They hadn’t come up with a drug to keep him from doing that yet.

-

 

He woke up screaming Friday night and spent most of the weekend sedated. On Sunday evening he came out of it enough to use the finger-paints to make an image of what he imagined Buttercup must look like from Prim’s description. Layers and careful layers of white, orange, and brown paint until the whole page was a warm glow, the cat curled in repose on his side, asleep like [the girl in a painting](https://www.google.com/search?q=flaming+june&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjr4oT4uoPMAhUIxmMKHZx3A2oQ_AUIBygB&biw=1066&bih=946) he’d seen on a wall in Snow’s mansion.

They said they’d get it to her, like they’d gotten the forest to Johanna.

The paranoia told him that they were lying, sabotaging him, and he’d never see any of the images or the people again. He asked them to take the paints away when the urge to throw them across the room got too strong. It wouldn’t be bearable in here without them.

 

**[Week 2]**

 

Johanna came on Monday this time. It was really brave of her to come back, given how much she hated the place. He said “hello” and gave her his best smile. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, unbound and appreciating it.

They’d offered to secure him, he thought. At least, he guessed that’s why Johann’s sharp “no, fuck off!” had echoed in the hallway outside earlier.

She flopped down into a chair beside him. “I got your painting.” She scratched her chin. “I didn’t know you could actually make something _good_ with finger-paints,” she admitted, but then glared at him. “But, Peeta. Freaking trees,” she sneered. “Does it ever occur to any of you artsy-fartsy people that maybe _I don’t like trees_?”

Peeta laughed. “Sorry. There _is_ only so much you can do with finger-paints. Feel free to make a request.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” he said.

He leg bounced rhythmically against the floor. She was trying really hard not to bolt. “I’ll think about it. For now, whatever’s good.”

“Okay,” he said. “It’s great to see you. But you don’t have to stay,” he added, and tried not to sound too nice. That would just piss her off.

“I’m leaving. But I’ve got a message to deliver first,” she said, leg still bouncing against the floor.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Finnick and Annie are getting hitched and they, um…” a smirk spread across her face. “They want you to _ice their cake_ , Peeta,” she said, raking her eyes over him and putting a lascivious twist on the words. “For a _special treat_.” She licked her lips. “You know how much Finnick likes _sweet things_ ,” she finished, and gave him a wink.

Peeta laughed so hard he nearly choked.

“Okay,” he said, when he’d gotten his breath back. “When’s the date?”

“Couple weeks from now,” she said.

He’d talk to Dr. Lewis about whether that was a “realistic goal.” “Tell them congratulations and that I’ll try.”

She gave him another bone-crushing hug before she left.

 

-

They played him the video of her singing “The Hanging Tree” again. The first time, it hadn’t really sunk in. He was trying to think about everything else but her so he wouldn’t lose it. This time, he remembered why he used to think she was beautiful.

When it finished playing, he asked to see it again.

-

 

Delly bounced in on Tuesday, proud to report that she and her beau—his name was Timothy—went on a date. In District 13, that meant sitting together at dinner and strolling hand in hand after while Tim’s mom watched Delly’s little brother.

“I brought you the ribbon,” she said, setting it on the bed near his hand. “In thanks for your help.”

He frowned. “That’s sweet. But, Delly – you should keep it.” What was he going to do with it?

“No I –“ she smiled down at it and then up at him. “I think it’s lucky, Peeta.” She beamed. “It brought Tim and me together, didn’t it?”

Lucky for love, that’s what she meant. He picked up the silky green strip, rubbed it between his fingers. She’d been careful not to say _her_ name but she’d invited him into her own love story and now she wanted to leave him with a token of its success.

Good things can happen, even now. Even here.

It was green. He thought that was _her_ favorite color. It would give him something to ask about when she came on Friday, in any case.

“It does brighten up the room,” he said. He held out his wrist. “Do the honors?”

She looped it a couple times around his wrist and tied a bow. Said he looked quite handsome in it.

-

 

When Haymitch saw the deck of cards all he wanted to do was play gin rummy. “Haven’t done this kind of thing in _years_ ,” he said, shuffling the cards.

“There’s things I need to ask you about,” Peeta said. He and Haymitch had the most history of anyone here, apart from her. There were things he needed to know, now that his memories were clearer and the venom was out of his system.

“You can talk and play, can’t you?” Haymitch asked, his hands moving easily as he cut the deck and shuffled the cards again.

Dr. Lewis would call that “avoidance.”

“I guess,” he said.

Haymitch dealt them both ten cards and made a big show of arranging his hand.

“You like her more,” Peeta said as he arranged his own hand. There was a pair of jacks that looked promising and the start of a run in hearts. “You always have.”

Haymitch scratched his head. “Are you,” he waved his hand, “just expressing your feelings here or asking a question?”

“It’s a question,” Peeta said. “There’s stuff I need help figuring out.” He had some pretty good guesses but nothing beat talking it over, making new observations and memories he knew he could rely on.

“Okay,” Haymitch said. He grabbed a card from the stock pile and squinted at his hand before discarding an ace. “I like you fine, kid. I _understand_ her better. We’re a lot alike. You get the difference?”

Peeta nodded. He suspected this. It didn’t necessarily seem like a fun thing to have a man who oozed self-loathing identifying with you. “I’ve heard about your Games,” he said, coming to her defense. “And I’ve seen the end of ours here several times. The real one, not…” the Capitol one where she beat him to the ground and shoved nightlock berries in his mouth. “—the real one,” he repeated.

“Yeah, so?”

“You would have put me down. Clean, but you would have done it. Not saved my life.” The first time he was sane enough to watch the end and really see it, he felt his heart clench. Even _if_ she’d manipulated him into offering himself as a sacrifice, she hadn’t taken it. She’d risked her life. “She’s a better person than you.”

Haymitch’s eyes widened. “You really are getting better,” he said, because he’d doubted it. “To say a thing like that.”

Peeta shrugged. “You’re kind of a low bar, Haymitch,” he said, because he really didn’t like the man very much these days. They were going to have a long screaming match--a real one, not something tracker jacker venom induced--about the Quarter Quell one day, just not this week. Peeta was going to see her this week and he wasn’t going to push himself to a setback before Friday. He wasn’t going to let anybody else push him to it, either.

“Fuck you, kid,” Haymitch said, without rancor. “It’s your turn. It’s been your turn for about ten minutes.” He pointed at the stock pile. “Quit jawing and take a card already, would you?”

 Peeta picked up a card and tossed it on the discard pile without even looking at it. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, and put down a set of threes.

Peeta focused long enough to keep up, setting down his own run of clubs.

“Can I ask _you_ something?” Haymitch said. “Is that allowed?”

“Sure.”

“When did you turn the corner on getting through all that shit in your head?” He rubbed his nose. “There was a lot of shit in your head.”

“There still is,” Peeta said. “I’m not anywhere near done with it. This is just a really good day.” He felt bad wasting it on Haymitch, honestly. He’d come to think of sanity as a few precious coins he had to spend wisely. Who knew when he’d get more?

“Okay. But you’re not the way you were. Not anywhere close. So, when?”

“When she came for me,” he admitted.

“Ah, the controller.” Haymitch said, and frowned, leaning forward. “Listen, kid, I really thought--”

Peeta waved him off. “I hate you a lot more for lying to me about the Quarter Quell. And the rebellion and--” he caught himself, pulled his thoughts away from that firmly. No setbacks this week, that was the goal. “Anyway,” he smirked, “you should know I’d do the same to you if our places were reversed.” He put down three queens just to twist the knife.

Haymitch sucked his teeth but didn’t say anything to that. “Okay, so, missy breaks in here, waves a gun around, terrorizes the staff and everything. Takes you hostage. And you, what, are just sitting there thinking ‘wooowie, what a _sweet_ girl!’?”

“Weren’t you monitoring our conversation?” Peeta hedged. He could count on the fingers of one hand the important moments he’d had with her that weren’t recorded and analyzed and picked over by an audience.

“I was a little busy making sure she didn’t get you both killed.”

Okay, then. He wasn’t giving away more than he had to willingly. “They made me think she was this--” he shook his head, “all knowing, all powerful, scheming, manipulative seductress slash sadist slash child killer. Twenty minutes alone with the real her and,” he shrugged. “It all seemed a little stupid.” He smiled. “She couldn’t manipulate her way out of a paper bag,” he said, fondly.

He was pretty sure he found it even more endearing now than he had before. It made such a wholesome contrast to the lies.

Haymitch laughed, nodding. “You always were the better liar.”

“I guess they didn’t need a story that would hold up for very long,” Peeta said. He was supposed to kill her within seconds and never even know what he’d done. What he’d lost. Or, if he lived, only realize when it was too late.

He’d come so close...

He set the cards down, bowed his head, breathed through the shaky terror.

No setbacks this week.

“If Snow could see you right now,” Haymitch said, “he’d be really pissed off.”

Peeta looked up at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I know how his nasty little mind works. Look, he used his top shelf shit on you, son. Chose a box so tight nobody had _ever_ gotten out of it. Had this sick little drama all planned out, with you as his puppet. And you fought it off.” He pressed his hand to Peeta’s arm. “That’s a middle finger right in his face.” He looked down at their cards, stood. “What the hell, why don’t we call it a draw?”

Peeta nodded. “See you next week.”

 

-

 

On Thursday Prim brought Buttercup to see him. “I got your painting!” she enthused, holding up the animal in question. “I thought you’d want to see him for real.”

The cat was nothing like Prim’s description. He was so perfectly hideous he was almost beautiful, all muddy colored fur with a torn ear and a disgruntled expression.

A lot of things about Prim made sense in this cat. The way she visited him when he was little more than a snarling animal and kept it up as he figured out how to be a human being again, for example.

Prim sat on the hospital bed across from him, with the cat between them. She cooed at the animal and nuzzled and stroked it with such love that Peeta had to give it a try.

Buttercup was softer than he looked.

Peeta decided they should be friends, if only because of the shared blessing of Prim’s kindness. He worked until he found a spot under Buttercup’s chin to scratch that would win him over.

“See,” Prim said, smiling, “he likes you!”

Buttercup stretched and batted at the green ribbon on Peeta’s wrist.

When the cat grew restive at all the petting, Prim pulled out a string and they passed it back and forth, playing with the cat until he got tired out and started poking around the room, sniffing medical equipment.

Prim gave him a kiss on the cheek and left when the hour was up. How lovely it would be to have her as a sister.

 

-

 

He asked for a little extra morphling before _her_ next visit. Just to be sure. They were kind enough to oblige. They’d been reducing his dosage slowly, but today he needed the cushion it provided. When the nurse came in, he stared up at the ceiling as the enforced cool calm settled heavier over him.

It was important to get his thoughts in order.

After she—he pulled out the mental list— _came for me, protected me, risked her life_ , it was pretty clear that their sad little romance wasn’t entirely manipulation on her part. She cared. The thought that this was yet another lie kept trying to worm its way through his brain but he pushed it aside. If he started doubting his new memories he’d have no _self_ left.

Something had to be real or nothing was.

He had been living in that knowledge for a couple weeks now, testing it out against new conversations, testing it in therapy. He’d built a solid core to hold on to.

_She came for me, she protected me, she risked her life._

And now here he was taking powerful drugs to make himself less psychotic for the same reasons he used to primp in the mirror before talking to a pretty girl.

He glanced up at the nurse as she secured the straps. An older woman with grey hair in a neat bun, he hadn’t talked to her or any of the others much. They were so military. Not unkind, but only a moral as their orders allowed. They had all thoughtlessly participated in the controller debacle, for example. If not directly then by their silence. And then just as quickly switched gears and started treating him like a person. He might have expected resentment over the high-handed way she’d intervened, but there was nothing. Their orders had changed and they obeyed. With none of the rebellious subtext or resentment he was used to people—even Peacekeepers—in District 12 having toward authority.

It was chilling. And alien to him, for people to believe in authority like that. Not just obey it, but _believe_. There must be rebellious souls somewhere, but none that he’d seen so far.

But it was probably about time he started trying to live with these people. He ducked his head, gave a self-deprecating smile. “Um. Does my hair look okay?” he asked, testing the waters.

The nurse’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, you’ve got a cowlick—“ she said and licked her thumb, starting to go after it, before she caught herself. “If you don’t mind?” she asked, a faint blush on her cheeks.

Peeta smiled. “Please, go ahead.”

She licked her thumb again and started smoothing his hair into shape. “Raised two boys,” she said casually, “you never forget.” When she was finished she gave him a once over. “Much better,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

She paused a moment. “My eldest lives on the upper level with his wife,” she said. “If you hadn’t warned us I might have lost him.” She patted his hand. “I know your girl’s a big war hero and everything but you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of yourself.”

The sudden warmth of her confession was a shock. He felt himself gaping at her.  “Thank you,” he said again, dumbly. She smiled, nodded, and left.

The nurse’s kind words might have made him a little too encouraged. When _she_ walked in and sat down in a chair by the door he went kind of overboard in his plan to make her feel welcome.

“Big audience in there today?” he asked lightly, tilting his chin at the one-way glass.

 “No,” she said slowly, “just two. Haymitch and your doctor.” She looked wary.

Considering the horrible things he’d said to her the last time they spoke, that was understandable. She was scared. It made him feel awful so he overcompensated with more lightheartedness. “Oh,” he said, and gave the glass a little wave. “Hi, guys.”

See, same old Peeta! Nothing scary here. Please ignore the straps and remain 10 feet away from the patient at all times.

“You’re _better_ …” she said in the doubtful tone of someone experiencing a hallucination. She shifted. “You’re a lot—“ she looked away to the mirror and then back, “better.” There was suspicion in her eyes.

Like he was just luring her into a false sense of security. That hurt. It was fair enough, but it really hurt.

“Not entirely,” he said, lifting one strapped arm. “I mean I—“ God, he’d been stupid. He’d just wanted so badly to have that illusion of wholeness he could have talking to Delly or Prim. Which was really magnificently stupid given that she was ground zero of his psychosis. “I’m better enough to fake it sometimes,” he explained. Confessed.

“Oh. That’s… good,” she said. She didn’t look sure.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, because he could say things like that to her now without his mind warping the words all around. “About last time. And—“ _nearly killing you_ , “everything.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said in that way of hers where she could sound absolutely certain of something. “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier. Didn’t protect you. I--” she bit her lip. “Are there things I’m not supposed to talk about?” she asked the glass.

“Not specifically,” came Dr. Lewis’s voice. “Just feel it out.”

Peeta rolled his eyes. “He always says super helpful things like that.”

The corner of her lips quirked. “Things are better now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. I -- can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

“I should have checked on you earlier,” she said, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s hard to know... what to do in a situation like this.”

She shook her head. “No. When I was sick, there were things I wanted. Things that bothered me about how I was treated. I could have thought about that. Asked questions about your treatment. Put together a list earlier. I should have.”

“You were sick?” he asked, confused. “Like… injured?”

 “Mentally Disorientated,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “That’s what they called it.”

His stomach twisted. “When?” he asked, horrible visions of her being trapped in a room like this one swimming through his head. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone—except maybe Snow, in his darkest thoughts—let alone her.

“When I first arrived here. I was really--” she looked at him, “upset.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. “I’m fine now. But I should have remembered,” she said solemnly. ”I should have done something.”

“It’s okay,” he said again.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. She was never a big talker and he couldn’t do all the work like he used to. Oh, well, he’d try.

“Your favorite color’s green,” he said. “Is that right?” Nice, safe topic.

She smiled. “Yes. And yours is orange.”

He raised his eyebrows. That was a strange choice. He didn’t remember that – it was scary how much of himself was still lost.

“Not bright orange,” she said, off his look. “Soft, like the sunset.”

He pictured a sunset, the soft pinks and oranges and knew she was right. “Thank you,” he said. She’d kept that safe for him this whole time. It was like a gift.  “Speaking of orange,” he went on, moving to another safe topic. “Yesterday Prim brought Buttercup to see me.”

She scowled. He imagined her ears flattening like the feline in question. “Oh,” she said, completely deadpan, “great.”

Peeta laughed so hard he curled up as far as the strap around his chest would allow. Of course she hated the cat. It was too perfect.

He stopped laughing when he saw the fear in her eyes. Fear that he was cracking up.

“Sorry! I’m fine. Sorry. Just…” he chuckled. “The look on your face.”

She relaxed. “He hates me,” she explained, like a child sharing a terrible injustice that had been done to her. “I saved his life.” Her expression came _this close_ to a pout.

He nodded sympathetically.

It was probably safe to move on to a more difficult question now. “I have this memory,” he said, “well, several really. I think I used to hold you... on the train?” He wasn’t sure why she had decided he was strong enough to keep her nightmares away, but she had. He remembered being glad to do it. He hoped it was real. But there’d been no cameras there, no one else to confirm or deny it. There were things only she could tell him.

Her eyes widened. “Haymitch, can you leave for a minute?” she asked the one-way glass.

The speakers crackled. “Sure.”

They waited. Then Dr. Lewis’ voice came over the speaker. “He’s left,” he said. The speaker came on once more: “By some coincidence, the recording equipment has experienced a temporary malfunction.”

They smiled at each other. He’d been a good choice.

“You sure know how to put together a list of demands,” Peeta said.

“Well, I do it often enough,” she quipped. But her hands were moving nervously, clasping and unclasping in her lap.

“The train,” he said, reluctantly taking them back to the topic at hand. This was the heart of his rather pathetic attempt at mental patient action with a pretty girl.

“Yes,” her poor nervous fingers, tying themselves in knots. If he were a better person he’d just leave her alone. “What do you want to ask?”

“Just,” he shrugged, “was that _real_?” He’d already guessed that it was. It wasn’t shiny and the feelings weren’t simple, they were all muddled. Love that hurt because it wasn’t returned, not like that. Vain hope that it would be one day. Fear for what was coming. Nothing the Capitol had turned red with venom or the doctors here had wrapped in morphling had that much… nuance. But he needed to know for sure.

He wanted it back, like the orange of the sunset. And only she could give it to him.

“Yes.”

“Were we together?” he ventured. He didn’t think so, but it couldn’t hurt to check.

“We just slept,” she said.

“Are you with someone now?” he asked, really sticking his neck out. It was pretty audacious, trying to court a girl from five point restraints.

“No,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “If I wasn’t –“ he gestured at the straps, “like this, would you want me to hold you still?”

Tears came to her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

“These days,” he said gently, “I often miss myself.”

She gave a wet huff that was more sob than laugh.

“You’re really better,” she said. The look of hope in her eyes terrified him. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

He didn’t want his next freak-out to break her heart.

“It’s important to maintain realistic expectations,” he said, quoting Dr. Lewis verbatim. That should get him a gold star in memorization, at least. “I don’t—“ he dropped his eyes, sighed, “want you to be… disappointed the next time I have a setback.” He coughed, fought the heat coming to his own eyes. “If I could snap my fingers and be that boy again for you I’d – I’d give anything—“

“Please,” she said, “don’t talk like that.” When he didn’t look up at her, she went on. “I won’t be disappointed. It’s just—you’re so much better.” She paused. “You must be fighting so hard,” she breathed, and he wasn’t wrong. There was love in her voice.

Whether it was the kind of love she had for Prim or something else, he wasn’t sure. But she’d done things for him-- _came for me, protected me, risked her life—_ that she’d only do for a handful of people and that was enough.

“Peeta,” she said, “can I touch you?” Terror and joy went through him like twin lightning strikes, leaving him dazed.

“Uh—“

“I’m sorry. It’s okay if that’s too much.”

“No. It’s just –“ he met her eyes, “I honestly don’t know. It’s a risk,” he warned her.

“Do you mind risking it?” she asked.

“I worked really hard for this conversation,” he said. “Really, really hard.” He swallowed. “I was sorry when you couldn’t come last week, so I really worked—“ He shook his head. It was impossible to explain. Even if he could, he wouldn’t want her to understand feeling like that. “If something happens, is that going to ruin the whole conversation for you? I don’t want that.”

She shook her head. “Nothing can do that.”

“Okay. Um. Do you know what phobias are?” he asked. “Like, Mom was terrified of spiders. It was weird to see her so scared of something since she was so—“ what was a polite way to say it? “you know, herself.”

She nodded.

“Anyway. It’s not rational. It’s a physical reaction. They used tracker jacker venom on me, you know?”

She nodded. “To change your memories.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s out of my system but… There’s all these memories and it’s hard to tell what’s real.” He was doing better. But they were still _there_. It was so hard to see through them. The terror and pain that his mind said was all her. “And—“ he swallowed, “it’s like I have a phobia. Of you.” He winced at how that sounded. “It’s like Mom with spiders.” Great, now he was comparing her to spiders. “It’s a physical reaction. I can work around it, I have coping mechanisms but… it’s going to be there. If you come closer. It probably won’t be fun to watch.” It would definitely be humiliating to experience. At some point he thought surely, being a certifiable lunatic now, he’d become immune to humiliation. But it never went away.

“No matter what happens,” she said, “I’ll come back next week. And if you can’t see me then, I’ll come back the week after. Or the week after that. I abandoned you here once. I thought you were gone, but I was wrong and I’m sorry for it. I won’t do that again.”

It wasn’t the appropriate reaction to that confession, but he felt himself smiling at her. She was so… pure. Honest and sincere and clear as fresh water. Some might call her blunt, even. But it was beautiful on her.

“Okay,” he said. “Would you like to come over here and hold my hand?”

She dragged her chair over cautiously. The rubber on the legs squeaked against the title floor. When she was beside the bed she sat down and extended her hand, palm up, on the bed so it was within his reach.

“Can you take it right now or should we wait?”

Fear crawled up his spine, tightened around his ribcage. He wanted to pull away, to get away, his limbs going rigid in fear even as his heart warmed at being close to her again. It was like her hand was a poisonous snake, not a small hand with dainty fingers. Fingernails she had clearly chewed down to the nub.

“Just give me a minute,” he said, breathing slowly. Her hand was just a hand. She was just waiting there, not doing anything. She wasn’t going to hurt him. Everything he knew about her for certain said she wasn’t. She wasn’t.

It felt as if his arm weighed two hundred pounds when he edged it forward across the white bedsheet, forcing himself to make the tips of their fingers touch. He breathed hard, like he’d done some extraordinary feat, and tried to get used to it.

 “Your hand’s cold,” he said.

She huffed a laugh. “The palm’s warmer,” she offered.

“Oh,” he said. That wasn’t going to happen, though. It was hard enough staying where he was. But he didn’t come this far to give up. “You’re going to have to do it. And don’t let go, please,” he said. “Just hold on. No matter what.”

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” he repeated. “I want this.”

She took his hand. He flinched, trying to pull away. Her fingers tightened around his and she caught his wrist, just above the strap, with her other hand, hard and tight. A strangled, frightened sound came out of his throat at that, even though it was what he’d asked her to do. His lungs seized up and he felt his entire body shaking, his stomach turning despite the anti-nausea medicine. She had him now, he wouldn’t ever be able to escape, she was going to – going to –

He squeezed his eyes shut. Pulled up the mental list, focused on it.

_She came for me. She protected me. She risked her life. She came for me, she protected me, she risked her life. She came for me she protected me she risked her life._

It wasn’t working so well. But then she began to sing. Soft and uncertain, but so beautiful.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

It made a contrast to the steel grip she had on his wrist and how tightly her fingers were gripping his. He choked on a sob, continuing to shake with fine tremors up and down his arms.

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

Her voice held the fear at bay just enough that he could stay there, caught in her painful grip and soft, sweet voice, listening as hot tears came to his eyes.

_Lay down your head, and close your eyes_

She had used this song to resist them before. It was so gentle and so powerful a weapon. Her heart was her greatest weakness and her greatest strength. In the ordinary course of things, her natural reserve concealed it. But when she sang she forgot how to hide. He felt embraced and surrounded by her caring, caught in the way her voice shook as she strained to hold him but never lost its warmth.

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

She held him tight to her, held his hand and his heart safe, even when his hands and heart and everything he was had been turned into a thing meant only to destroy her.

_Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true_

He squeezed her hand back, in silent thanks. Dainty as they were, they were working hands. Calloused and strong from a life-time using her bow. These hands had protected him, fed her family. They had killed and nurtured. If they were all very lucky, her hands might bring down a government.

_Here is the place where I love you_

When she was done, he’d relaxed enough that her grip on his wrist eased. “Do you remember the way you stroked my hair that night in the cave?” she asked quietly.

His eyes snapped open and he was shaking his head before she finished. “Not safe,” he said. “Not safe.” His hands should be nowhere near her neck for a long time.

“I just wanted know if you remembered,” she said.

“I do,” he had several sets of memories of that cave. Everything they’d shown him on video was like that. A spectacular mess. He knew now that the version where she was hurting him wasn’t real. But the mophling softened version didn’t feel real either, not like the nights on the train. She didn’t need to know that, though.

“I’m glad,” she said and squeezed his hand.

The contact almost didn’t make him feel like he was about to die.

The hand that had been gripping his wrist so tightly stroked the green ribbon Delly had tied there. It tickled and a shiver that wasn’t fear ran up his arm. “What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s for good luck,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “I think it worked,” she said softly. She pressed a kiss to the fingers of her right hand and touched the ribbon, as if in thanks. 

“Do you think we can win?” he asked. “Even with all the luck we can get?” He didn’t just mean the war or them, he meant everything.

“I think we’ve got a shot now,” she said, taking his meaning.

His felt his lips curl into a wry smile. “And you rarely miss.”

She smiled back. “Not when it counts,” she said. “How long do you want to do this?”

“Few more minutes,” he said.

When she left, she promised she’d be back next week.

 

-

Saturday morning he woke up with bruises on his wrist. It was evidence that he hadn’t been dreaming. She came here and held on to him no matter what. He ate breakfast and tried to adjust to the thought of being pleased at bruises. It was a look he’d worn often enough in his life, but it had never meant something good before.

He traced his fingers over the marks. They complimented his lucky ribbon nicely.

After breakfast they told him he was being moved to another room.

“Why?” he asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He liked the new treatment plan. He didn’t want them to decide to do something else to him.

“You can’t guess?” Dr. Lewis asked, the harsh overhead lighting reflecting off the lenses of his round metal spectacles. It was like he was dressed up as the one-way mirror he so often stood behind.

“I could but I don’t want to,” Peeta said. “This is my life,“ he said, “not a guessing game.” The doctor told him to be honest, so he was honest. Sometimes he worried he was too honest; he’d never willingly been so blunt with someone in his life. But the process worked so far, so he tried to trust it.

Unless they’d decided he was too much trouble and they were going to drop him in a hole somewhere. He fought the sickening urge to apologize to the doctor, beg forgiveness.

When had _please, don’t_ ever done him any good?

“You’ve made good progress,” the doctor said. That didn’t sound so bad. “Stunning, really. And now this level of security…” he waved a hand around the room, “is counterproductive, given the memories it brings back.”

Peeta’s worst case scenario flipped 180 degrees from fear for himself to fear for her. “But I’m not safe yet!” he snapped.

“I can see that you’re not pleased,” the doctor observed, mildly.

That was his cue to spill his guts. Explain why. Peeta sighed, made a face. “I’m afraid of what I might do. Wouldn’t you be?”

“I should have explained this better – you see, this is the highest security area in the hospital. Moving from here does not mean you will go freely. You will,” he enumerated on his fingers, “have round the clock guards posted to your door. If you leave your room, you will be secured with ambulatory restraints first. And you will not be able to open your door from inside. And our daily treatment schedule will continue, of course.”

Peeta felt himself relax at each layer of defense. “Oh,” he said. There was probably something really wrong with how attached he’d become to other people controlling his life, securing and directing him.

“Everything will be perfectly safe,” the doctor said, and called in a nurse to help him gather his things.

They didn’t amount to much. A deck of cards, a set of paints and some paper, Delly’s lucky green ribbon on his wrist. They gave him a grey outfit like the ones the regular people here wore to change into before binding him with the ambulatory restraints—a strap around his waist that attached to handcuffs and down to fetters—and walked him out of the hospital and down the hall on the same level to get situated in his compartment.

It was plain and drab, but homier than the white room had been. The lighting was softer, at least.

The guards released him from the restraints and left him standing there alone as the door slid shut.

The first thing he thought about was suicide.

Not with any special urgency. Just thought about it. This was the first time in the four months since the Quarter Quell when he could escape that way if he wanted to.

First the Capitol tied him down and took him apart. Then District 13 strapped him to a bed and fumbled with what was left of him like a child trying to glue together a jigsaw puzzle that had pieces missing. At some point, he must have gotten used to that.

He sat on the bed, frowning.

He could turn his own clothes into a noose. Never be hurt again, never have to be afraid of hurting anyone he loved.

But it would hurt her. Killing himself at this point, after getting her to hope again, would be like driving a knife into her heart.

So, he didn’t. He got up and stored his few possessions in one of the room’s drawers and waited for someone to tell him what to do.

The door opened for his lunch. It came with a cup full of pills. They were mostly beige. They came in all different sizes and shapes with cryptic letters and numbers imprinted on them. Now that they couldn’t just put whatever they wanted straight into his veins he had to swallow a whole medicine cabinet. After lunch, Dr. Lewis came by to talk. The first questions were about the change in accommodations: did he feel safe enough, was there anything he needed? Peeta answered vaguely. It was fine. No, he had everything he needed. Except perhaps art charcoal to draw with?

Dr. Lewis made a note about that. “You seem distracted,” he said, finally.

“I’ve been thinking,” Peeta said, and felt the way he did when he actually _wanted_ to share something. It was kind of nice to be able to say things to someone without worrying about what they wanted to hear. “About the first time I pitied my mom.”

“Oh?” the doctor’s eyes were a warm brown behind his glasses here without the glare of the white room’s harsh lighting. “When was that?” he asked, this tone neutral. Peeta could tell he kept himself a careful blank to his patients. Wondered what he was like when he wasn’t being a reflecting glass for someone else’s recovery. What a strange job to have.

Peeta could scream his head off about the most terrible things and that tone would never change. He had, in fact.

“When I was ten,” Peeta said. “Up ‘til that point I really thought she was… the way she was because of something I’d done. I kept trying to figure out how to be better. How to stop making her mad. But then I was standing in the kitchen peeling potatoes and she just hit me. Out of nowhere. She screamed about how I wasn’t doing it right.” He paused. “But I was. It was just a stupid excuse. I looked at her and I thought – she’s crazy.” He rubbed his neck, remembering her fingers digging into it, thinking about the way his fingers had dug into someone else’s neck. “I wasn’t even angry, I was just sad.”

“What made you think of this today?” Dr. Lewis asked.

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m crazy now too?” His tone wasn’t very nice. But the doctor wanted honesty, right?

“You’ve been unwell for a while now, Peeta,” the doctor said. “But you thought of this today. Now that you’re improving, even.”

 “But I wasn’t unwell before,” Peeta said, like he was explaining to an idiot. “You have to be a _person_ to be unwell. I wasn’t unwell,” he ground out, “I was an _experiment_.”

“You never stopped being a person,” Dr. Lewis said.

“Maybe philosophically. But practically?” Peeta raised his eyebrows. “Doctor, would you still be a person if no one was treating you like it?”

“I take your point,” the doctor said.

“Yes. And now that I’m a person again -- it’s pretty clear what _kind_ of person I am, isn’t it?” he said, driving at the point. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“You have a choice about that.”

“You really think so? When I can’t even be sure what I’m going to do?” He wasn’t going to confess about the suicidal thoughts. That might get him thrown back into the white room. But he kind of suspected that was his only real choice. And he couldn’t make it.

Katniss – he thought around the name slowly, grateful to have it in his head without exploding. _Katniss_ said she’d abandoned him. Given up hope. And he’d stupidly, selfishly resurrected that hope. What had he been thinking? If he hadn’t done that, he could have checked out the first chance he got without hurting her. Now she’d be forever bound to a crazy person. Because that was what she was like when she loved someone; she’d do anything to protect them.

He pressed his fingers into the bruises on this wrist and wished he could take it all back. He’d bound the truest heart he’d ever known to someone who could go off on her at any moment. 

“I don’t think there’s anything more pathetic,” he said, “than not being able to stop yourself from hurting the people you love.”

“I can’t diagnose your mother,” the doctor said. “But I have diagnosed you and I can tell you that you _do_ have a choice about your own recovery. You have a choice and you have the tools here to support that choice. I will work with you to make sure you’re safe.”

Empty platitudes. Nothing would happen to anyone the _doctor_ loved if Peeta lost it again.

“Now that I have a room,” Peeta said, “can I tell you to leave it?”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “Though if you make a habit of breaking appointments your living situation will have to be reevaluated.”

“But once isn’t going to do that.”

“Not once, no.”

 “Okay,” Peeta said, “then get out.” It sounded harsh to his own hears and he felt badly over it. That was going too far, even for someone whose job it was to take his shit. "Please," he added.

"I'll see you tomorrow," the doctor said, and left.

Peeta looked at the door long after it had closed. He could tell people to leave now. That was another choice he had.

 

-

On Sunday morning he was jolted awake by Johanna’s voice sing-songing, “Rise and shine, lover boy!”

Loudly.

He yawned, stretching. When his eyes could focus, he glared up at her. “What are you doing?”

“I heard you finally got out of that hellhole. Get up – I’m taking you and your boytoys outside to breakfast.”

He sat up, frowning. “Um. Is—“

Johanna held up her hand. “No, don’t say it. Let me guess. Is the noble icon of our glorious revolution going to be there? That’s what you want to know, right?”

He nodded. He’d planned on taking all his meals in here just in case.

“No! Why do you think I’m doing this at the ass crack of dawn? It’s to avoid her. And the inevitable drama she drags with her everywhere she goes. Now, get up.”

“Do you mind if I go to the bathroom first?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

“Whatever, but hurry up,” she raised two hands, each with a pill cup, and shook them at him, “before I get our crazy pills mixed up.”

He ducked into the bathroom and took care of necessities. When he came back out, she said: “Can we go now? You done prettying yourself up?”

“I have to ask them to restrain me first,” he explained, heading for the door panel.

“Oooh, _kiiiinky_ ,” she drawled.

“Nooo,” he volleyed back, mimicking her, “ _saaaafety_.”

“Oooh,” she replied, “ _toooouchy_.” And with that she got the final word in because it was just too damn early to come up with a suitably childish riposte.

Peeta laughed, not minding one bit.

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to "The Devil is a Friend of Mine" - probably won't make sense without reading that one first! 
> 
> Big thanks to notyourfuckingalatea for going above and beyond in helping me write this and lending me her awesome beta skills! 
> 
> Credit to Suzanne Collins for "soft, like the sunset" and to whomever first came up with the popular fanon that one of Peeta's brothers is named "Rye." "Bax" is my own invention - it's short for "Baxter" which means baker.


End file.
